


The Masks We Wear

by Deeranger, palishere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Collaboration, Eventual Happy Ending, Fic Facer$ Charity Auction, Fic Facer$ Charity Auction 2019, Fluff, Funny, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, Phobias, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sam Winchester Has a Fear of Clowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/pseuds/Deeranger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/palishere/pseuds/palishere
Summary: A fluffy story about the Winchester brothers and their bullheaded mission to prank each other. Neither of them wants to lose this prank game and of course they always have to top each other. It all starts out pretty innocently... But what happens when it goes too far?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration between me and @palishere for the Ficfacer$ Charity Auction 2019. Our winning bidder requested "fluff" and "Sam". We had promised a minimum of 2,000 words, but it ended up getting a bit longer than that. *Clears throat*. This is what we came up with. Enjoy!

“Gimme the key!” Sam shouts as the passenger door of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala slams closed and he stomps around the front end of the car. His shoes are squelching below him in the dark and leaving wet footprints on the asphalt - until he decides to kick them off, making them land in front of the motel room door with a wet thud.

Dean is still sitting behind the steering wheel, seemingly enjoying the confines of the Impala as he tries to hold back a fit of laughter. Casually, but quickly, he then fumbles in his pocket for the motel key and tosses it to his brother through the rolled down window.

“It’s not that bad—”

“Don’t!” Sam warns and glares down at his older brother through drenched chestnut locks - and if looks could kill, Dean wouldn’t have stood a chance against his dripping wet little brother.

Snatching the keys mid-air with a swift movement of his hand, Sam angrily makes his way to their motel room, slipping inside for half a minute in order to grab some dry clothes. Cursing under his breath he then walks back out, making his way across the parking lot towards the shared bathroom and shower facility, sending Dean a brief glower as he passes the car.

The older Winchester suppresses a smirk as he watches him storm off into the dark of night, crossing the parking lot and disappearing into the shadows. A feeling of accomplishment washes through him as he finally gets out of the leather seat and walks around the car to pop open the boot. Quickly he does the obligatory check, counting every weapon and making sure it’s in the right place. With a small whistle he then stashes the clown mask next to some other items they haven’t used in a while. It was a dick move, he’ll admit to that. But damn. Just thinking about it has Dean bursting into laughter now that Sam is no longer within hearing – or punching - range.

***************************************

Annoyed and feeling about ready to snap, Sam tosses his clothes onto a nearby stool in the middle of the changing area and promptly starts to pull the soiled shirt off of his back. The fabric sticks and clings to his skin, and he grits his teeth when his jeans do much of the same. Letting out a small huff he leaves the wet pile where it is and collects a couple of fresh, dry towels from the cupboard. Grumbling about the hunt he turns the taps on and hurries to get under the gushing, warm water. Steam and heat quickly fill the men’s shower facility, and Sam scrubs at his skin to rid himself of the smell of stale water or whatever it was that he had fallen backwards into after Dean’s little stunt. Whatever it had been, it sure smelled like a skunk had drowned in it or something.

Sam puts his hands to his face to rub it clean, and instantly the image of the mask creeps into his mind. Its red hair, pale face and unnecessarily large, red nose and lips haunt him straight into a shudder and even though the water raining down on him is close to boiling point he still feels an icy chill roll down his spine. Damn it. Dean must have planned this prank since the start. There was no serial killer ghost like Sam had been told. The warehouse wasn’t haunted, it was just abandoned. And Dean’s idea to split ways to cover more ground had only been a means to separate them - so he could go back to the car and get the damn mask. Of course. Sam huffed and gripped the soap a little too hard, almost causing it to spring right out of his hand. Dean had gotten him good this time.

Turning the taps off he reaches for a towel to pat the water from his face. ‘_If only there were some way to get back at him,’_ Sam ponders, huffing again as he uses the towel to rub down his shoulders and arms, quickly soaking up the excess water into the fluffy cotton fibers. His brother really shouldn’t get away with a prank like this – or that smug, confident grin will probably be plastered on his face for months. The thought alone makes a new wave of annoyance flare up in Sam’s mind. 

Letting out a sigh he wraps one of the towels around his waist and walks back into the changing area. It’s abandoned at this time of night, and he is somewhat grateful for that. Then no one can wrinkle their noses at the stench coming from the soiled pile of clothes, at least. Pulling a clean shirt over his nearly dry skin his glance randomly fixes on the towel cupboard – and it lingers there for a second. A smile then creeps over his face when he realizes just what he’s going to do to get back at his pain in the ass big brother. ‘_If he thinks he can leave me dripping wet, let’s see how he likes it!’_

Opening the cupboard Sam does a quick check - there’s only three clean towels here. He does some quick thinking and he knows that he needs to take into account that Dean might use his brain for once and collect a towel before hitting the shower - so he leaves one of them in the cupboard and ditches the others into the dirty linen shoot. There, no towels. Well, _one_ towel.

Sam grabs the plastic bag he brought from the motel room, carefully scooping the wet and smelly clothes into it. Cringing he realizes that he should probably just throw them into the bin once back in the room, because he really isn’t feeling very confident that he will ever be able to get them properly cleaned. Pouting he pulls on his jeans, starting to make his way towards the exit. And that’s when he sees him, walking across the parking lot and heading straight towards the shower facility - and for a change, Sam can’t help the smirk that spreads on his face. His eyes then quickly scan the surroundings, making sure that there are no extra towels stashed anywhere. There isn’t. And he can’t spot anything else that his brother might be able to use either. Good.

“Dude, don’t they have a hairdryer in this place?” Dean’s gravelly voice asks as he walks in, looking Sam up and down with a wide grin on his face. He is obviously referring to the tangled, wet mane currently plastered to his little brother’s head. Well, in all fairness, during his planning Sam hadn’t had the time to properly dry his hair – Dean was right about that much.

“No. But you know what they do have?” Sam grumbles, shooting his brother another glare that really should strike the man dead on the spot. It doesn’t though. Apparently it only makes him grin wider, and Sam challengingly raises an eyebrow at him:

“A douche!” he grumbles, pointing his finger at Dean. For a split second the older Winchester looks almost genuinely surprised, but he is quick to let out an amused huff as he pulls his T-shirt off over his head.

“That’s just lame,” Dean says, briefly sending Sam an innocent-looking smile.

“Come on, Sammy. Can’t take a little joke?” he taunts, green eyes confident and playful. Automatically Sam’s jaw muscles clench in annoyance. And as soon as they do Dean has to suppress another laugh and prevent it from tumbling out of his mouth.

“Whatever, man. Pout all you want,” he chuckles and tugs off his jeans and shoes.

“Should’ve seen your face!” he laughs, and raises his eyebrows at Sam as if he is truly waiting for him to come around and realize just how funny this little joke of his was. It’s too early for anything of that sort though, and briefly the image of the clown mask flickers inside Sam’s mind again.

“Yeah. Yeah, laugh of the day…” he mutters, clearing his throat a little. God, how he hates clowns. But right now he hates Dean’s superior attitude even more – mostly because he actually does have a reason to feel somewhat accomplished. He had set the perfect trap, and Sam had just walked right into it. How foolish and naïve.

“Anyway, smell ya later!” Dean says and finally snatches the one remaining towel from the cupboard. Sam’s gaze follows his every move as he places it next to his stacked jeans and T-shirt on the small counter by the glass wall separating the shower from the changing area. Right now Dean is only wearing his underwear, and Sam slowly turns towards the exit, pretending to be heading that way. His brother would probably find it strange if he didn’t, and he definitely does not want to give away anything that might raise his suspicion. It seems to work just as Sam intended, because when he turns his back to him he can hear Dean stepping into the shower behind the frosted glass. As his brother begins to hum some random rock song, the taps are turned on and the sound of water splashing down on the tiles fills the room. This is Sam’s cue.

Carefully he stops and turns his head back towards the shower, making sure that Dean is actually in there. The blurred out silhouette behind the steamy, frosted glass confirms that. With the smirk from before returning to his face, Sam slowly sneaks towards the towel and pile of clothes on the counter, making sure that he moves soundlessly. As he gets closer, his smirk grows bigger when he sees that all of Dean’s clothes are indeed there, underwear and shoes as well. And the towel, of course. Perfect.

Silently Sam lets the plastic bag with his soiled clothes dangle from one hand while he scoops up Dean’s clothes and towel with the other. For a moment he feels annoyed that he simply doesn’t have enough arms and hands to snatch the shoes as well. But when he thinks about it, it doesn’t matter that much. _‘It’s not like he can cover up with a pair of shoes anyway_,’ he smiles to himself.

Dean’s humming has turned into singing, and Sam recognizes the track as Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” as his brother happily bellows out the lyrics under the cascades of running water. With a mischievous smile tugging on his lips Sam carefully retreats towards the exit, setting down his naked feet softly to make sure that they don’t slap against the tiles and give away his presence. ‘_This is almost too easy,’_ he smiles to himself as he gently turns the handle and slips out into the parking lot. Inside he can still hear Dean’s muffled singing. His brother is completely oblivious, and a slight feeling of schadenfreude washes through Sam. Because now _he_ is the one with a confident grin plastered on his face as he heads back to the motel room, arms full of clothes and Dean’s towel - because the sun is already starting to creep over the mountains, bathing everything in a soft, yellow light.

***************************************

Dean has never been one to take anything for granted, so as the well-pressured, heated water belts down over his skin, he gets a little lost in it. His eyes close as he scrubs his open palms over his face and he manages to hit some good notes while singing the chorus, his voice lightly bouncing off the tile walls. This is nice. It’s just what he needs, actually.

Grabbing his tooth brush he quickly squeezes some paste onto it and shoves the brush into his mouth, letting the bristles rub vigorously against his teeth - this is when the lyrics become a little fuzzy. Not that anyone is around to appreciate the tune though. Which is too bad, really, because he’s actually doing quite a good job. With a smile tugging on his lips he opens his mouth and lets the water that pours from the showerhead fill it, and he gargles a little to make sure the minty toothpaste swirls thoroughly around in there. He then spits the contents into the drain below. 

Resuming his more coherent singing now that the brush is out of his mouth Dean ponders the prank he successfully pulled off tonight. Sam damn well could have shot him and he can’t help but wonder if he will call it quits now. There is no way his little brother is going to win this war, anyway. _‘Not that he hasn’t tried his best,’_ Dean thinks to himself when his mind rewinds a little and flashes the memories in front of his eyes. Their little games have been going on for roughly four days now and Sam switching the Impala’s car key for a fake one was pretty top game, but his little brother should have known better than to bring Baby into this. And the Mentos in coke trick? That’s just old science. 

Dean’s hands wash away the last of the suds before he blindly finds the taps and reluctantly turns them off. With a content sigh he lets his palms collect the excess water accumulated in his hair, raking the wet strands back and forth and flicking the drops into the drain below. He has finished his “Smoke on the Water” rendition, and the only thing he can hear now is the faint sound of traffic outside and water dripping onto tile. God, is he tired. He is more than ready to hit the sheets, the fake hunt starting to take its toll and sudden exhaustion creeping up on him. But he knows that he can’t rest just yet, because even though he could really use two or even three hours of sleep, he knows that Sam will be itching to get back on the road. To move on to a _real _case. 

Drenched he finally takes the first few blind steps out of the shower, his arm extended to feel around for the towel, trying to avoid getting water in his eyes. The feeling of fresh water on your eyeballs is never exactly comfortable, after all. But when his hand doesn’t meet soft cotton as it fumbles across the counter he opens his eyes anyway, no longer caring about them stinging, while confusion starts to make its presence known in his mind. Confusion that is growing faster by each passing second when he discovers that he also can’t _see_ any towels.

“What…?” Dean hears himself mumble, instantly frowning. He definitely remembers leaving the towel here. Right here. But the counter is empty, its long and polished surface completely bare. Blinking away the initial shock and annoying droplets of fresh water in his eyes he comes to the conclusion that maybe he’s just more exhausted than he realizes. Yeah, he probably is.

Creeping the few feet into the changing area he lets his hands cover his genitals - just in case some other guests are up early for a shower.

“Umm… Hello?” he calls into the room as he peeks around the corner. His voice echoes slightly against the walls, returning to him as a slightly muffled version of his own voice. No reply comes though. ‘_Thank Christ_,’ he thinks to himself. Quickly he darts into the changing area, ignoring the golden glow of the rising sun from outside, as he heads straight for the linen cupboard. Ripping two doors open he goes a little red as he realizes what has happened.

“Come on!” he bursts out and turns around – only to discover that his clothes are also missing. All that is in sight are two haphazardly placed size 11 pair of sneakers.

“.... Fuck!” he says under his breath, brows knitting themselves together as it dawns on him.

“Damn it, Sam!” he hisses, annoyance and anger immediately surging through him. He should’ve known. Should’ve known that Sam just doesn’t know when he’s been beat. Letting out a huff Dean looks around the room for something – anything – to cover himself up with. But there seems to be absolutely nothing of use. There aren’t even shower curtains in this god forsaken place, he realizes, and another angry huff escapes him.

Indecisively he just stands there by the empty linen cupboard for a little while, contemplating how to tackle this. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he chews on his inner cheek. And as the sun slowly rises higher, the tint of its rays growing redder and hotter by the minute, he finds himself sticking his arm into the dirty linen shoot in the hopes that maybe a used towel has somehow got stuck in there. But of course he’s not that lucky. Instead his hand just brushes against the cold steel, devoid of any sort of solution to his current problem.

“God damn it,” he curses, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply in an attempt to gather his thoughts. As much as he doesn’t want to think about it, there’s no way around it – he’s going to have to go into the damn parking lot. Butt naked. Grumbling and gritting his teeth he gathers that he might as well just tackle this head-on and get going, because the longer he waits the more people he risks running into outside. Hell, it must be around six in the morning already, and the motel guests are undoubtedly starting to wake up.

Even though he has made up his mind, he still hesitates a bit as he sticks his feet into his sneakers, readying himself for the inevitable. But at least with his shoes on he can move a little easier and probably a little faster - Sam showed him that bit of mercy, it seems. The bastard. 

Forcing himself not to think about it any further, Dean steps up to the exit and grabs the handle, carefully twisting it. The door opens soundlessly, swinging just a tiny bit open on its hinges and allowing him to peek outside. As his eyes scan the part of the parking lot that he is able to see from here, he chews a bit harder on the inside of his cheek when he realizes just how bright it is already. The place is fully illuminated, the sun already having let go of the horizon. A discontent grunt gets stuck in his throat, and he sticks his head out a bit further. It’s pretty silent except from some seagulls shrieking somewhere and the sound of car engines humming in the background, probably out on the main road as far as he can tell. The parking lot actually seems pretty calm, and he can’t see anyone. Relief washes through him. But so does a bit of anxiety.

_‘Well, no more stalling,’_ he thinks to himself. He might as well just get going. And so he slips out of the door, his hands covering his groin while he quickly whips his head to the right and then to the left, scanning for people. To his surprise there seem to be none though. Lucky! He can’t help but feel a little uplifted by this, knowing just how much it is going to annoy Sam – who is probably watching from the motel room in the far end of the parking lot. Yet still, Dean feels uncomfortably exposed out here. Like some sort of very awkward sitting duck.

‘SMACK’

Dean nearly jumps out of his own skin when the door he just slipped out of slams closed right behind him, abruptly yanking him out of his train of thought. He had completely forgotten to hold on to the handle once he got out to avoid making any noise – but how was he supposed to do that anyway when he needs both hands to cover his junk? _‘So much for stealth mode,’_ he thinks to himself. Shuddering a little he swallows, his gaze darting around the parking lot nervously. No one’s there. Phew.

Carefully he starts walking, heading for the first parked car. Maybe if he just follows the row of cars until he can slip past the small reception office and the ice machine, he’ll be able to make it to the room without anyone even spotting him?

_‘Stupid!’_ Dean’s mind screams at him as he quickly crouches behind the first car, peeking around the front end of it. It’s a long line of cars, most of them with their noses facing the doors of the rooms. The motel is almost completely booked, which means plenty of cars for Dean to hide behind and in between, avoiding being in direct line of sight of other patrons and staff.

‘_This is so stupid’ _Dean’s mind repeats, but part of him doesn’t deny that he sort of deserves this; the embarrassment, the cold breeze forcing goosebumps to rise on his bare, bowed legs and the long walk of shame he’s about to take in order to get to the room across the parking lot. Suddenly the clown mask prank he pulled seems less worth it.

The sound of a door creaking open and combined laughter can suddenly be heard when a young couple exit their room not far from Dean’s hiding place. He instantly tenses, automatically crouching a little lower behind the car – but giggling and holding hands the couple just go straight to their vehicle, never even looking in his direction. Is he really that lucky? With one hand hiding his privates Dean carefully leans forward a little to see if they are reversing out yet, because he can’t see them. And then the familiar sound of doors slamming closed and an engine starting up fills the air and tells him that the coast is nearly clear. Or at least that’s what he thinks for a moment – until the sound of someone repeatedly honking a car horn in the distance shatters the calm of the motel parking lot. 

Despite his efforts to hide someone on the highway must have spotted him from a mile away, because the honking intensifies as an old Subaru nears the motel. Mortified Dean turns a little to fix his glance on the vehicle, seeing some young teenagers hollering at him while their buddy lays on the horn. _‘Why’re they even up this early!?_’ Dean’s mind asks in a panic, cursing under his breath. And he knows that he now has to determine which side of the motel is the least busy at this godforsaken time of day - and who he should risk being seen by: The suddenly busy road? Or the hotel patrons? His face slowly starts to heat and feeling helpless he grits his teeth impatiently as the car of young adults passes with a rumble of shouting and laughter.

Feeling a bit more flushed than he’d like to admit Dean looks around the back end of his hiding place, fixing his glance on Baby being parked there so neatly, just patiently waiting for him - and he swears that next time he’s going to be _driving_ to the damn showers! Cursing the fact that his keys are in his missing jeans, he lets out an annoyed huff. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?

Grumbling and with his hands cupping his way too exposed manhood he bites his lip. He has to move. He can’t keep stalling like this or he will definitely get spotted. Taking a deep breath he prepares himself the best he can - and then he finally moves, dashing around the back end of each car only to hide behind the next one. But he doesn’t feel comfortable staying behind this one for too long – mostly because it’s a classic soccer mom’s minivan or station car, and the mere thought of a young family seeing him like this or calling the police on him sends shivers down his spine. Out of breath he darts past another car and crouches behind the next. His senses are on high alert, and right now even the small pebbles getting crushed under his sneakers sound so incredibly loud that he’s sure it’s going to wake up the entire clientele.

His heart instantly pounds even harder in his chest when he suddenly spots it – because he hasn’t known hope like this for at least three minutes, and his eyes widen. A newspaper. Two doors down. Only two. It just sits there so innocently outside number 16. While he waits for his heart to beat at a more regular pace he checks for other guests heading to their cars. But it’s still pretty early and most people should be sleeping in, so he creeps around the front of the car, eyes glued to the morning paper like a lioness stalking an unaware antelope.

Getting up he cups his manhood, hides it behind his hands and does an awkward, fast-paced shuffle to the front of number 16 –and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he covers himself with just one hand as he collects the daily news with the other. The words ‘_I made it’_ repeat over and over in his head like some sort of celebratory mantra. Victorious he holds his prize and looks down the long stretch of asphalt littered with pebbles and gravel, leading to their motel room behind door number 3. The main window is open and he can’t be too certain, but he is pretty sure Sam is on the other side of that window right now with a stupid smirk plastered on his face, laughing at him. _‘But the game isn’t over yet, Sammy,’_ Dean thinks to himself, narrowing his eyes at the shadow he thinks he sees hiding behind the window’s glass. 

“What the hell!?!” a voice suddenly booms in a rough southern accent. Dean’s attention is instantly ripped from the window, and he whips his head back to look at the thick, wooden door of motel room 16 in front of him. Only, now it is suddenly open - and in the doorway is a tall figure looking like some sort of KFC colonel biker, wrapped up in a dull colored dressing gown and with tattoos that are visible on both sides of the his neck. Dean doesn’t even have time to gasp, he’s just staring up at him blankly with wide eyes when the gruff, older man snatches the newspaper:

“You creep!” 

Dean’s grip immediately tightens around the paper, but all he finds himself left with is the front page when the rest of the contents is torn from his fingers.

  
“Get outta ‘ere!”

The man shoves Dean backwards and after two stumbling steps the warm metal of a car against his naked buttocks shocks the older Winchester back into reality. Fumbling to regain his balance, he accidentally drops the page - and now the wind steals it, swirling it further away from him. Dean chokes down the gasp trying to tumble from his mouth by the sight. The only positive thing about this particular situation is that the wind is in fact carrying the paper closer to his own room and not further away from it.

“S-Sorry…!” he rasps in an embarrassed tone of voice, avoiding the man’s piercing stare. His eyes widen and he quickly drops his free hand to his crotch to cover himself better as he hurries to run after the stray page, chasing it like a dog would a bone. He sees it do some magical flip before dipping down between two large SUVs, and he scrambles in between the two vehicles in an attempt to retrieve his only cover. Dropping to his knees to grab the loose page he swears God is playing with him, because the wind suddenly picks up and when his hand hits the asphalt he can only watch as the page slides under the car on his left.

“Are you kidding me!?” he hisses while his hand searches the asphalt for a small moment before he presses his ear to the ground to look under the car.

“C’mon!” he growls and reaches under the car to snatch the page.

“Oh my!? Edward!!”

The loud, high-pitched shriek comes from somewhere behind him, and Dean honestly didn’t know that his eyes were capable of widening any further. Apparently they are though, because they feel like they’re about to roll right out of his head. And his cheeks start to burn fiercely, because he doesn’t even want to begin to imagine the visual that must be greeting whoever is standing behind him. Here he is, on all fours, and with his naked ass in the air for all to see. He’s way too embarrassed to turn around and face the poor woman, sounding like she’s in her late sixties - but, he finds that it’s a little late for that, because he has already tumbled over in a sorry attempt to prevent things from getting worse.

“Oh, my goodness! Oh! Edward!! Edward!!?” 

“Sorry…! I-I...” Dean stutters as he kicks his feet into the asphalt and hides his naked body behind the back of the left SUV. But the woman is still standing in the doorway, seemingly frozen to the spot while she keeps shouting loudly for her husband.

“M-My… Please... I can—” Dean starts, trying to explain his situation, but the woman is continually cutting him off and frantically yelling for Edward to come quickly. Overwhelmed Dean looks down the long strip of asphalt leading to room 3, and it isn’t until he sees a young, attractive blonde woman glancing back at him that his face heats up enough to actually sting his skin and color it a bright shade of scarlet - and for a split second he forgets that he’s in a parking lot, because he swears from the heat on his face that he must have wandered the desert for days. 

The woman looks like she is in her late twenties; young, slim and with a friendly face. It looks like she has just put her children in the car, and now she is peering in his direction – probably to see what all the commotion is about. And all too fast she spots him. They lock eyes and Dean’s heart leaps just as fast as he does when he scrambles to get out of her field of vision. Clumsily he crawls to the next car and somehow manages to get to his feet, his hands quickly aiming to cover his groin and god damn, he is going to kill Sam!

“Would you go back inside! Damn it!” Dean shouts back at the elderly woman, frustration getting the better of him. Edward has joined her in the doorway, and she loudly exclaims for the next three rooms to hear:

“He’s naked!”

As her shrill voice booms across the parking lot Dean convinces himself that he can’t wait around any longer. Not unless he wants an even larger audience. He’s roughly four rooms from the showers – but still ten or eleven from his own room. How has he not moved any further than this?

“What the hell’re you doin,’ kid?! Eleanor, go back inside, I’ll handle this!” the man named Edward yells, taking a step towards Dean and lifting his cane into the air threateningly.

“You better leg it, pervert! Unless you want me to teach you a lesson or two!” he croaks, and swings the cane. As it cuts through the air it makes a whistling sound, missing Dean’s head with more than five inches. But even though it isn’t at all close to actually hitting him, it helps to get him moving. After all he doesn’t want to end up in an altercation with someone’s grandpa. Spinning on his heels Dean turns and dashes down the sidewalk in front of the rooms, passing the hoods of cars so fast that they seem to blur out a little. His hands are clutching his groin as he tries his best to avoid his junk slipping out into view as he runs. 

“That’s right, beat it!” Edward yells, still waving his cane in the air somewhere behind Dean. It feels like his angry gaze is burning holes into his back, but it’s nothing compared to the look the blonde woman is sending him. Even though Dean intentionally chose the sidewalk to avoid getting too close to her, she’s still staring at him with a wide-eyed and accusing look as she scurries to the back door of her blue station car. While he runs, abandoning all plans of retrieving the piece of newspaper, Dean notices movement behind the windows in the car. Two kids, probably around eight and twelve, are pressing their faces against the glass.

“Mom, what’s that man doing?” one of them asks, eyes wide and glued to Dean as he sprints down the sidewalk, his naked form only partly covered by the parked cars separating them. The woman is quick to press herself against the window of the station car, blocking their view the best she can.

“Nothing, he-he’s just a mad person, Matthew, alright? Now play Mario Kart with your sister!” she says, voice a little shaky. Dean can’t determine if it’s from actual fear or if it’s from anger. Or disgust, maybe. He can’t really tell. What he can tell though is that his cheeks are fiercely burning by now, and he hates the way he can feel his naked ass jiggle a little by each step he takes as he storms for room number 3. It still seems so far away – but at least the room numbers are passing by him so quickly that he doesn’t even have the time to register what they say. He does register that several heads have popped out of one too many doors already though, and there’s no doubt in his mind that someone is probably in the midst of calling the police. Great.

“Hey, watch it, freak?!” someone yells when Dean races past the reception office and almost knocks a soft drink right out of their hands when they step out on the sidewalk in front of him. An awkward twist of his body allows Dean to slip past the person who is now yelling profanities at him, barely managing to avoid a head-on collision.

“Someone call the cops on this guy!?” a voice yells from somewhere. Dean has lost count on the amount of spectators he has gathered by now, and he doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Clutching his genitals a little firmer, he jumps over a pink kid’s bike haphazardly parked by the ice machine, and he realizes that he is actually a lot closer to his room now. _‘Thank god,’_ he thinks to himself – but at the same time his mind is one big mess of embarrassment, anger and nervousness. He hopes that the cops don’t show up too fast, or he and his brother will be in deep shit. Jeez, they haven’t even packed! What the hell is Sam thinking?! _‘Shit, shit, shit,’_ Dean’s mind chants feverishly, as he darts the last few feet to room number 3, looking over his shoulder and seeing way too many heads turned in his direction. Quickly he grabs the door knob and twists it way harder than necessary – he just wants out of this damn parking lot, out of this exposed situation and out of people’s line of sight. But the door doesn’t open. Knitting his brows together in confusion Dean twists the door knob again. Same result.

“Sam!!” Dean yells, and even _he_ is surprised at how loud it came out. As his voice bounces off every surface in the motel’s parking lot, he slams one of his hands against the wooden door_. ‘Unbelievable,’_ he hears himself hiss inside his head. 

“Sam, open the god damn door!” he shouts, trying to will himself to calm down and not be as loud. He fails miserably though. Instead he finds himself slamming both of his fists against the wooden surface, no longer caring about his nakedness and his audience. But they are only able to see his ass from here anyway, and right now Dean truly doesn’t care. They can _kiss_ it for all he cares. 

“Sam!?” he growls, and just as he is about to crash his shoulder into the door and bust it right off its hinges, it swings open with a creaking sound. And there he is, the bastard, with just a little hint of a smile on his lips. But it’s there – the smile is right _there_, and Dean wants to knock right off his little brother’s face.

“That took you long enough,” Sam says, the smile widening just a tiny bit. Unnoticeable almost. But Dean notices. He notices it just fine.

“Move!” Dean hisses, pushing past his brother and into the safety of the motel room. Well, not that it will be safe for long, because the police are probably on their way right now.

“So grumpy…” Sam mumbles, a chuckle hidden somewhere in his voice.

“It’s not funny!” Dean spits, glance darting around the room to find his stolen clothes. A small huff escapes his little brother.

“It isn’t?” he just says, amusement clearly lacing his voice. Meanwhile Dean is fumbling with the pair of jeans he found tossed on his bed, clumsily sticking his feet through the pant legs and almost tripping himself in the process.

“No! Damn it, Sam, what were you thinking?! We can’t attract attention like that, the cops are gonna—“ he begins, but his younger brother cuts him off, lifting their freshly packed duffle bags into the air a little:

“And that’s why we’re leaving. Right now,” he dead-pans, the smug smile tugging a little harder at the corners of his mouth. 


	2. Chapter 2

Conner’s bar is usually pretty quiet this time of morning, but not today. Today everyone in the damn town seems to suddenly fancy this grease joint, the noise of chatting and clinking of glasses and cutlery filling the room. Dean pushes through the heavy doors and makes a straight line towards the urinals – as he does he snaps his fingers at Sam, clearly indicating that he wants him to find them a table and to order him his usual burger and beer. Then he disappears into the restroom.

Sam huffs. Does he look like a personal servant or something? Shaking his head a little he scans the room, trying to spot a free table. There doesn’t seem to be any, but soon he spies a couple stacking their plates on top of each other, preparing to leave.

Once Sam sits himself down he automatically extends his arm to check out the menu, absentmindedly picking up the binder of laminated pieces of paper. But honestly, the order rarely changes. Dean always gets the Conner’s special burger with extra crispy bacon with a side of French fries along with a beer for the road. And Sam has the chicken Caesar salad with less dressing and a fruit or berry smoothie depending on his mood. So, why? Why is he even looking at the menu?

Over by the counter the waitress eyes him staring blankly at the menu and casually makes her way over.

“What can I get for ya?” she asks, and the corners of her mouth lift in a customer-friendly grin as she snatches her pencil from her yellow apron - and for that little moment Sam hesitates to order. For second or two he just looks from the menu to her and back again.

“Umm…” he begins, but trails off when he finds himself just looking at her. He can’t help but admire the way her hair is gathered in a sleek ponytail and how even that bulky apron looks like it’s made just for her, hugging her curves in all the right ways. And that twinkle in her eyes has made his knees feel a little gooey ever since he first walked in here. He knows that her name is Anna. It’s a beautiful name, really. _‘She looks like an Anna,’_ he thinks to himself.

“Or maybe you haven’t decided yet?” she asks with a bright smile, ripping Sam from his daydream. Clearing his throat he looks back down on the menu, trying not to let the heat in his cheeks grow any stronger. 

“I… Hah… I’d like two chicken Caesar salads and- umm- two mango and pineapple smoothies. Thanks…” he manages to say, sending her an apologetic smile. Why can’t he just act normal for god’s sake? Swallowing he watches as she hurries to scribble on her little notepad, turning away with a smile. But before she can leave Sam interrupts:

“Oh! Can… Can you add bacon to one of those, please?” he asks, smiling back at her. She sends him a quick nod along with a friendly wink before turning back around and walking away with the order. Feeling his heart beat a little faster than usual Sam watches her right until she disappears into the kitchen. _‘What’s a girl like that even doing here?_’ he thinks to himself. He’d be surprised if Dean hasn’t noticed her too.

Thinking about his brother Sam lets out a quiet chuckle. He can’t help but ponder if Dean might actually kill him over this. After all, the man does love food - and burgers are only trumped by pie. Cholesterol and grease in abundance is his favorite dish, and Sam has just messed with that menu big time. Dean will probably be a little provoked by it. But he must admit that he’s a little excited to see the look on his older brother’s face when faced with his meal. With a smile Sam leans back into his seat and waits. 

Seven quick minutes tick on by and finally Sam sees Dean coming towards him from the far back, bowed legs striding confidently across the floorboards. 

“Did you get us food?” he asks as he unceremoniously takes a seat opposite his brother.

“Yeah… But you won’t like it,” Sam says. He doesn’t even look at his older brother - he’s preoccupied with the serviette dispenser, fiddling with the mechanics and turning the tiny metal box around in his large hands, seemingly trying to map out exactly how this silly thing works.

“Sam, I swear to—” Dean snaps and points his finger upwards in a swift motion, cutting himself off. The look on his face tells Sam basically everything that he’s about to say though.

“If there isn’t bacon on my meal then- then... Then I'll make you sit in the back of Baby!” he whispers, brows knitted together as he spews the empty threat angrily across the table.

“Oh, there’s bacon…” is all Sam says before the waitress, Anna, starts her journey from behind the counter to their table, balancing a tray in her hands. Dean relaxes at his words, but he notices something in the way Sam said it. Whatever he’s about to be served was no accident, that’s for sure. Sam must have planned or done something.

“Bacon?” the waitress asks politely and Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his big brother’s unimpressed bitch face. A smile can’t help but tug on his lips when he points in Dean’s direction and she then puts the plate down in front of him. Anna then swiftly places two forks along with their drinks on the table and walks away.

“Salad?” Dean asks, but judging by the tone of his voice it is less of a single worded question and more of a ‘_What the Hell?_’ 

“It’s got chicken and bacon, that’s two of the main animals you eat—”

“And what the hell is this?” Dean says and wraps his hands around the bright, orange juice, studying it shortly before glaring back at Sam.

“You think you’re being smart, don’tcha?”

For a few seconds silence settles and they just look at each other, Sam slightly wide-eyed and Dean with his jaw muscles clenching. Sam hasn’t heard him be so serious about food before, angry even. Hell, he’s passionate about greasy foods, but usually he doesn’t let things get to him this easily. Maybe the pranks are getting a little out of control? 

“It’s a meal. Just eat it,” Sam says lowly, thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have done this. But he only feels guilty for about two more seconds when he remembers that his big brother faked an entire hunt and wasted two whole days executing his plan just to mess with him. This little food scheme pales in comparison. Still, he watches as Dean pushes the plate away, refusing to eat like he’s some fussy three-year-old.

“I’m not eating this… I’ll get some eggs to go with my bacon—” Dean begins, starting to stand up as he says the words.

“It’s got boiled eggs! The hell’s wrong with you? Just eat, so we can hit the road…” Sam interrupts, but his big brother either suffers from sudden hearing loss or he simply couldn’t care less about what Sam is saying, because he continues to push the chair back a little only to walk towards the counter. On his mission to get a proper breakfast, he misses Sam rolling his eyes in annoyance.

With long and determined steps Dean strides up to the counter, leaving his pain-in-the-ass little brother behind at their table, alone with the two stupid salads and the silly drinks. What was he thinking? A huff escapes Dean, and he notices his stomach growl at him angrily. Right now he just craves carbs - more than ever, really - and he’d rather die than give Sam the satisfaction of giving in and stuffing any of that damn rabbit food in his mouth anyway. No way he’s doing that. Not a chance. No, he’s going to get the greasiest burger in this joint and he’s going to make Sam regret messing with his food like this.

“Something wrong?” Anna’s voice asks, ripping him from his train of thought. Apparently he has been standing by the counter for a few seconds now, just looking blankly down at the polished wood while fuming and daydreaming about how to get even. Quickly he looks up to meet her eyes, a slightly flustered smile on his face:

“Umm, well… As much as I… Appreciate… My brother’s choice of dish, I think I’m gonna order something else,” he says, and he can’t help but study her features when she looks back at him, confusion painted on her face. She’s actually really pretty, Dean realizes. Full lips, striking blue eyes and a cute, little nose that points upwards a bit at the tip.

“Oh…?” she says, looking at him and blinking a few times. She then takes the pencil from the apron along with the notepad and looks at him, an insecure expression in her eyes:

“There wasn’t something wrong with the food, was there? I mean… If there was we would really like you to tell us. Ya know, in order to compensate you and to improve,” she says, sending him a small smile.

“Oh, no, darling. Nothing wrong with the food except that I’m not a rodent…” Dean smirks, sending the waitress a bright smile as he leans over the counter a bit.

“I prefer my meals more wholesome, ya know. Drippin’ with grease and the cow pretty much still mooing. That kinda stuff,” he smiles and looks over his shoulder briefly to fix his gaze on Sam. He’s sipping on one of the stupid-looking orange drinks, seemingly gone in thought while he pokes at his salad.

“But apparently my brother wanted to annoy me…” Dean grumbles, turning his head back to look at the waitress who is still looking somewhat perplexed but also slightly amused. She is rolling the pencil between her fingers, giving him a small nod.

“Ahh, I see… Well, it _is_ their specialty, isn’t it? Annoying the shit outta you? Trust me, I feel your pain – I’ve got three of ‘em,” she says and lets out a little chuckle.

“So what would you like? Lemme guess, the Conner’s Special burger?” she asks, sending him a wink. Dean’s smile widens, and he nods.

“You a psychic?” he smiles, placing his elbows on the counter as she grins and scribbles the order down on the little notepad.

“I’d say you’re more predictable than I am psychic…” she says, putting the pencil behind her ear.

“After all you have ordered the same thing four days in a row now,” she chuckles and turns to place the order by the chef. Dean huffs lightly, studying the way her brown hair has been neatly put in a ponytail on the back of her head. He clears his throat.

“Umm, about my brother…” he says, and Anna instantly turns back to look at him, eyebrows lifted into inquisitive arcs.

“What about him?” she asks, gaze flicking over Dean’s shoulder to fix on Sam who is still just sitting there, looking like a lost puppy and slowly eating his salad while staring out the window.

“Well, he’s really been yanking my chain lately. See, we’ve got this game goin,’ pranking each other, and he thinks he’s gonna win. So, I thought I’d ask for a little help at getting back at him… Even the score,” Dean says lowly, leaning forwards a little further on the counter. Anna’s eyes widen a little by his words. For a moment she just stares at him, brows furrowed.

“Umm, I don’t think—“ she begins, but Dean instantly butts in, sending her the brightest smile he can manage:

“I mean, you know how brothers are, right? All I’m asking…” he says, sliding a twenty dollar bill across the counter towards her.

“… Is that you spill a drink on him,” he says, looking up from the counter to gauge her reaction. She looks a little hesitant, but her brows are no longer furrowed in suspicion, at least. Biting her bottom lip she looks at the dollar bill, seemingly trying to come to a decision. But Dean doesn’t miss the hungry way she is looking at the money.

“And… If you spill it in his lap and try to clean it up, flirting and making him really uncomfortable... Well, then there are two more Jacksons headed your way,” Dean says, sliding two more twenty dollar bills across the counter. Her gaze is practically glued to the money now, and he knows that he’s got a deal. So, he continues, deciding to try his luck:

“Just in case you’re feeling extra adventurous and wanna earn a little more… You could give him a note, saying to meet you out back after hours—“

“Do I have to show up?” she interrupts, uncertainty again flashing across her features. Dean just grins.

“Oh, of course not, sweetheart! In fact I insist that you don’t! No, you just go home, and you spoil yourself a little…” he says, sliding a one-hundred dollar bill discreetly towards her. Her eyes grow as big as saucers in an instant.

“You’ll pay me 160 bucks to spill a drink on your brother and then stand him up??” she asks, baffled. Dean sends her a crooked grin.

“Hell yeah,” he just says, carefully sliding the crumbled bills a little closer to her.

“So… Do we have a deal?” he asks. A small smile starts to play on her lips and she nods, quickly snatching the money and stuffing it into her bra. 

“You bet!” she says, looking pretty much as excited as a little kid on Christmas eve.

“I always wanted to be an actress anyway,” she giggles, quickly glancing over at an unsuspecting Sam, giving him a good look-over. Dean’s lips curve up into a crooked grin. This is going to be awesome, and he’ll be able to just watch his oblivious brother from the sideline as the plan unfolds. He has to admit that he’s even kind of looking forward to it after the whole shower ordeal topped off with the stupid salad scheme.

He sends Anna a smile and a wink before turning around and heading back to the table, a vague sensation of butterflies tingling somewhere in his belly. Oh, this is going to be fun. As he nears the table and his brother he has to remind himself to wipe the grin off his face and put back on his more serious expression. After all, it would suck to make Sam suspicious already. 

“Hey,” his little brother greets lowly as Dean sits himself down by their table, focused on not letting that damn grin bubble to the surface. But it doesn’t really seem to be an issue anyway, because Sam has his nose buried in the local newspaper, eyes narrowed in concentration. Dean smirks, knowing full well that his brother doesn’t have the slightest clue that something’s up. With a contemplative frown Sam then slides the newspaper across the table top, looking up at Dean briefly:

“Get this...”

“You just love sayin’ that, don’t you?” Dean teases, and now the smirk seems a little more justified. Well, at least to Sam. As Dean snatches the paper, he quickly scans the headline of the article and works his way down the column of text.

“Three men—” Sam begins, starting to summarize the article, but Dean cuts him off:

“I can read,” he says flatly as his eyes flick back and forth over the small writing, and Sam already knows what tone that is. It’s the ‘_This isn’t our gig’_ tone.

“Well...?” Sam asks, looking at Dean with eyebrows raised.

“Well, what? They kidnapped some woman, and she claims a man—”

“Tore them apart?” Sam butts in, raising his brows a little higher. 

“Sam, I don’t think this is our type of—”

“I think we need to go by and just check…”

“For what? Vigilante werewolves? There’s no prior disappearances—”

“You don’t know th—” Sam argues, but he is cut short as Anna approaches from behind, balancing a tray with Dean’s meal on it in her hands. Like a flustered child, the young Winchester suddenly forgets how to speak and just sends the waitress a warm smile instead as she puts the tray down on their table.

“The Conner’s special...? With the cow still mooing?” she giggles and leans right over the table to drop Dean’s burger in front of him. Sam smirks a little - just before Anna brings her arm back and knocks his juice backwards and into his lap with a ‘splash’. As the cold drink soaks his jeans in a matter of milliseconds, Sam can’t help but jump in his seat, a shocked gasp escaping him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the waitress bursts out loudly, snatching a handful of serviettes from the dispenser and clumsily forcing them into Sam’s lap in a seemingly frantic attempt to mend the damage.

“No- it’s-it’s fine- I can…” Sam stutters, trying to grab the serviettes from Anna’s way too fast moving hand as she babbles a somewhat incoherent apology to him. At least Sam thinks it’s incoherent, but he can’t be sure – because he’s far too busy trying to avoid her ambitious hand to listen to what she’s saying. Her fingers nudge and rub in all of the sensitive places, making him involuntarily twitch. And even though he discreetly attempts to move away, Anna’s hand just fumbles right along, fingers occasionally splayed over his crotch and thighs as she wipes the worst of fruit pulp away, soaking the paper serviettes completely.

Like some hormonal teenager Sam feels his cheeks heat up. In fact his entire body feels heated all of a sudden. It’s probably due to keeping himself far too busy to hook up with any of the women they usually encounter that he can feel his crotch suddenly starting to chub in his soaked jeans. _‘Or maybe it’s because this is Anna!’_ he thinks to himself frantically. Instantly his eyes widen even more than they already were. How can he possibly be growing hard now? Horrified by his body’s unintentional reaction he automatically grabs Anna’s hand, and they both freeze. Her face is just as flushed as Sam’s and for an awkward moment they just stare, both not quite sure about what to do from here.

“I- Err…” Sam starts, but swallows the rest of the sentence when he sees her bite her bottom lip nervously. _‘She’s really pretty,’_ he hears himself think dumbly, and suddenly his mouth feels as dry as sandpaper. 

“... I- I can do it… Thank you- it’s fine…” he manages to say, and by now his cheeks feel like they are literally on fire.

“I really am sorry,” she says, batting her eyes up at him as he towers above her in his chair. He is still awkwardly holding on to her wrist, her hand hovering somewhat near his crotch and still clutching the soaked serviettes.

“I’ll go... Get a mop,” she then smiles quietly. She appears nervous, her cheeks a light pink color and her breathing a tiny bit faster than it was moments ago. Or at least it seems that way. Sam just swallows dryly and nods, gently releasing her wrist. He feels guilty that he even grabbed it in the first place, and the fire in his cheeks burns a little fiercer when he realizes that he’s still a little hard. God, this is beyond embarrassing.

Quickly Anna gets up from her kneeling position and rushes back past the counter to collect some cleaning supplies, her yellow apron swaying as she moves. _‘Even when she hurries she looks graceful,’_ Sam thinks. Getting up from his seat Sam finds himself watching her while he uses the remaining serviettes in the dispenser to soak up the juice on the chair and on his side of the table. When he finally settles back in the chair Dean pipes up:

“Lucky you got two of those,” he says and slides the other drink across the table. Sam’s glance darts around nervously before he looks in Dean’s direction, clearing his throat. He then picks up the drink and finds his fork with his other hand.

“Yeah…” he huffs.

“So, we should definitely drive past there…” he says, trying his best to resume a just somewhat normal conversation. At the same time he tries to will his body’s excitement to go away while he shovels lettuce and avocado into his mouth. Dean eyes Anna coming back with a mop and a bucket, and he sends her an appreciative smile.

“We’ll call the station before we leave, and _if_…” Dean says and points his finger at Sam while collecting some French fries with his other hand.

“… _If_ there’s been any other missing people cases, then we’ll drive by,” he concludes, stuffing the crispy bits of fried potato into his mouth and thus effectively hiding the grin that wants to emerge.

“Sorry, I’ll just clean this up…” Anna says with a small smile as she runs the mop around Sam’s chair and under the table. Trying not to let his embarrassment show, Sam attempts to send her a reassuring smile. He’s not sure if it just came out awkward and warped though.

“Look, I… I don’t normally do this… But I feel terrible for what’s happened and I…” she says and bites her lip while looking down at Sam. Confused and with his face still uncomfortably heated, he watches as she sticks her hand into her apron pocket.

“… Well, I’d love a chance to make it up to you,” she says and hands Sam a folded piece of paper. For a moment her hand just hangs there in the air while Sam looks pretty much like a goldfish suddenly robbed of water, mouth slightly agape. As she waits for him to take the small paper note, she sends him what looks like an insecure smile. Swallowing he slowly extends his hand and takes the small piece of paper, suddenly unsure if she’s joking or not. But when he looks back up at her she looks both embarrassed, nervous and serious at the same time. He then watches her glance flick down to his lap:

“And maybe, I can help clean you up after? I finish at six!”

She blurts the last part out quickly before turning on her heels and rushing back towards the counter, disappearing into the kitchen. For a long moment Sam just stares at the doorway she slipped through, unsure if he’s imagining things. But no matter if this is imaginary or not his cheeks seem to flare up anew.

“Holy shit…!” Dean blurts out, ripping Sam from his chain of thought, and the younger Winchester turns his head back to stare at his brother in disbelief. As Dean stuffs more French fries into his mouth, he winks at Sam while he desperately tries to refrain from bursting into excited laughter at how well his little plan has panned out so far. 

“Looks like someone’s getting lucky!” he chuckles, not quite managing to hide his amusement. But it’s okay, because this whole situation is quite laughable no matter what. Sam isn’t going to notice.

“I… What…” Sam just says, utter confusion painted on his face. And Dean has to focus hard not to choke on his fries then, suppressing a laugh.

“Come on, dude… What does it say?” he asks, taking a big mouthful of his burger as he nods towards the note in Sam’s hand. With a frown his younger brother nervously licks his lip and unfolds the piece of paper, eyes growing a little wider as he reads the scribble. Dean watches, wanting to crane his neck to see the note himself, but he manages to control himself. Barely.

“Umm… She… It says to meet her out back after work…” Sam says, the bafflement in his voice unmistakable. Dean smiles, wiping at an escaped drop of grease running down his chin.

“Are you?” he then asks, taking another mouthful of the burger. Sam’s eyes are still practically glued to the note, and it looks like he is reading it again just to make sure.

“Am I what?” he asks absentmindedly while turning his head to look at the kitchen doorway again.

“Gonna meet her, stupid?” Dean says, rolling his eyes. At his words Sam turns his head back, and Dean swears he has never seen Sam this flushed.

“I… I don’t know,” Sam says, carefully folding the note back up and sticking it in his pocket of his flannel shirt. Dean instantly knits his eyebrows together and puts his burger down.

“Seriously?” he asks, fearing that this plan of his might come crashing down in a moment. It’s just typical of Sam to be this hesitant. The kid practically never gets laid, and here he is doubting if he should even though he’s being given an obvious chance? A small huff escapes Dean.

“What are you, a monk? Eunuch, maybe?” he taunts, watching as his brother pokes at his salad.

“I know I would,” Dean says, picking back up the burger. The ball is in Sam’s court now. It won’t feel as good if he talks him into getting tricked anyway – he has to walk into the trap by himself. As he sinks his teeth into the juicy burger, he watches as Sam keeps poking at his salad, looking gone in thought. He shouldn’t even be thinking twice! Man, he has a weird brother. Well, even if Sam truly isn’t interested in blowing off some steam, it was entertaining to watch Anna make him all uncomfortable like that. So it’s a win no matter what. 

Ten minutes tick by slowly, and when Dean has finished the last of his fatty meal he shoots his brother a glance. Apparently Sam’s appetite isn’t very big today, because the salad is only half-eaten. Not that it is unusual, really. The man eats like a bird – _‘or rabbit,’_ Dean corrects himself.

“You done?” he asks, and Sam nods.

“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and gets up, putting on his leather jacket. Sam silently follows suit, and it is honestly hilarious to watch him cringe at how the fruit juice makes his jeans and underwear stick to his skin. He looks utterly awkward and uncomfortable. Dean smirks.

As they walk past the counter he keeps an eye on Sam, and Dean’s smirk grows just a tiny bit bigger when he sees how his brother’s glance is glued to the kitchen doorway. Then at the clock above it. Then the doorway again. By the time they reach the exit Sam is almost craning his neck in order to keep staring, and Dean shakes his head in amusement. And hopeful excitement.

The little metal bell above the door rings out when the door swings open and Dean walks out into the parking lot, a warm summer breeze hitting him in the face. Sam follows him, but as they walk towards Baby, he seems to slow down.

“Umm, Dean?” Sam says, and there is no doubt that he has stopped walking. Dean turns around, eyeing Sam up and down with an inquisitive look on his face. 

“Yeah?” he asks casually, rummaging about for the keys to the Impala in his pocket. Sam bites his lip.

“You just go ahead and drive back to the motel, I’m gonna… I’m gonna hang out here for a while,” he says. Dean smiles at him. _‘Bingo,’_ he thinks to himself.

***************************************

The Impala drives off with a rumble of the engine, leaving a cloud of smoke to hang heavily in the air before it is carried away by the breeze. Chewing on the inside of his cheek Sam watches Baby round the corner and drive out of the parking lot, leaving him behind at the diner. As he checks his watch, he can’t help but feel a small surge of insecurity and nervousness rush through him. Swallowing he unfolds the little note again to read the words scribbled with a blue ballpoint pen.

** _‘Meet me ‘round back at 6, xoxo’_ **

Knitting his brows together he flicks his gaze from the note back to this watch. It has only just clicked half past four and he can’t help but ponder if this is actually real life. If this is really happening. He looks at his watch again, gaze fixing on the hour hand. What should he do to fill the gap? Frustrated he runs a hand through his long locks.

“What am I doing…” he quietly mutters to himself, looking back at the diner over his shoulder. How is he going to pass all of this time? Not that it won’t be worth it, but right now he feels kind of like a fool just standing here and on top of that he’s growing increasingly nervous with this much time to think. Biting his lip he looks down at the tips of his shoes, just tipping back and forth on his heels a little. As small pebbles grate against the asphalt under his soles, he sticks his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

After what feels like an eternity he decides to check his watch again. He can’t suppress the tiny huff escaping him when he looks at the hands on the dial. Twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes have gone by. Has time slowed down or something? Frustrated Sam figures he might as well head inside the diner and grab a coffee or something. It’ll look a bit better than just pacing around the parking lot for the remaining hour. _‘And ten minutes,’_ his mind adds.

Business has slowed down considerably and Sam quickly scans his surroundings once inside, finding an empty table in a corner booth. It is out of view of the kitchen and he is happy to be out of Anna’s view for now, to feel a little out of the way. He doesn’t want to seem too eager either. Or like some sort of stalker for that matter. As he sits himself down on the red vinyl seat he grabs the all too familiar menu and turns it over and over in his hands, fiddling with its pages. He really shouldn’t be this nervous.

Time ticks by agonizingly slow. The place is almost void of customers by now. Same for service. He’s been seated and playing with the stupid menu and serviette dispenser for at least thirty minutes when a waitress finally approaches him. Looking up Sam sees her name tag before taking in any features. ‘Cheryl,’ it reads.

“Can I get you anything, love?” she asks with a welcoming smile. She’s an older woman with her blonde hair put up into a bun, and Sam thinks he spies a few loose grey strands poking out here and there. He flips the menu once more, fingertips running along the outer edges of the pages. She’s strangely cheerful, he thinks to himself. He finds himself noticing that she isn’t petite like Anna, but is of a sturdier and slightly larger build. Kind of bulky, actually. But she still looks professional and well-presented in the strange choice of uniform. Anna looks absolutely _stunning_ in it though. Suddenly Sam realizes that he has been staring too long without replying.

“Oh…! Errr… Coffee. Please, I’d love a coffee?” he says, sending her an apologetic smile.

“A pot?”

“Ye- uhh- yeah. Yes, please.” 

Feeling a bit awkward the young Winchester fumbles to reach his wallet and pulls out some cash to cover the coffee, telling the woman to just keep the remaining two dollars and five cents. The waitress lights up in a smile, thanking him while scribbling on her notepad. She then heads back to the kitchen.

She’s gone for several minutes before the clicking of heels tells Sam that she’s on her way back towards his table. The smell of freshly ground coffee fans through the air and grows stronger the closer she gets, and Sam flicks up his gaze. Smiling she walks up to him with a small ceramic cup - one that looks _much_ smaller in Sam’s hands once he carefully takes it from her. Quirking an eyebrow she places the pot on the table in front of him.

“Enjoy, love.” 

Sam smiles nervously and pours himself a cup. An awfully small cup. Good thing that he got a whole pot, he thinks to himself. As he slowly sips the steaming hot drink he spies the daily paper lying on a table right next to his. Great. He could use some distraction. Quickly he snatches it and begins to read. There are actually some decent articles in here and one about the local library and its innovative reading initiative targeting teenagers catches his attention. How _do_ you get teenagers to read? Narrowing his eyes at the small print he dives into it - and then time seems to begin to slip by almost unnoticed.

Sipping on his coffee he notices that it’s getting close to lukewarm instead of boiling, and he looks back at his watch. It’s 5:42pm. Instantly his eyes widen and he folds the paper, putting it back on the neighboring table where he found it. Getting up from the red vinyl seat he quickly heads for the toilet. _‘Damn coffee just runs right through,’_ he mutters in his head. As he passes the kitchen he discreetly peers over the counter, hoping to catch a glimpse of Anna. But he doesn’t see her.

After the quick – but much necessary - break Sam finds himself standing at the back of the diner, hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s a bit messy back here, empty oil cans and a set of old lawn chairs littering the asphalt. He takes a deep breath. Time seems to tick by a little faster now somehow. Gnawing on his bottom lip he begins to pace when his wristwatch ticks to 6:05. Any time now. Pulling the paper note out from his pocket his heart flutters with nervousness, and he reads the handwritten message again: 

** _‘Meet me ‘round back at 6, xoxo’_ **

It definitely says six. He checks his watch again and it’s somewhat closer to 6:11 now. She’s probably just wrapping up and is running a bit late. Nothing unusual about that at all. Maybe she’s freshening up after her shift or something. Changing clothes and all that. Chewing on the inside of his cheek he paces back and forth, studying the letters on various empty oil cans and old jars scattered here and there on the ground. Then he looks at his watch again. It’s almost 6:20. He tells himself to be patient, tells himself that it isn’t unusual for women to be late, tells himself that he doesn’t need to go inside and see if she’s still working, because she is. She will be.

However he quickly finds himself standing back inside the diner, trying his best not to look too lost. He doesn’t want to stress her out either by acting like some impatient stalker type. But he doesn’t see her, not from here at least. Standing by the exit his eyes are scouting across the tables to the restroom doors and back again. Then through what he can see of the kitchen area. But she doesn’t seem to be in sight. Maybe she’s just out of his line of sight right now, working in the back of the kitchen or something? These kinds of places probably have staff restrooms and such too, right? And he surely won’t be able to see those from here. With fingers nervously fiddling with a loose thread sticking up from the inside of his pocket, he takes a few steps to close the gap between the exit and the cashier behind the counter, deciding to ask if Anna is still on her shift.

“Anna?” the female cashier just asks, looking a little confused.

“Yeah, uhh… The… Young waitr—”

“Oh! Oh, yeah…” the cashier says, nodding a little when she finally seems to remember the name.

“She clocked off about two hours ago,” she says, and Sam frowns.

“What?” he hears himself say, eyes widening.

“Yeah, she left with her boyfriend around four. Nice, young fellow by the way…” she says absentmindedly while fiddling with some of the order checks on the paper spindle on the counter. 

“Boyfriend??” Sam just says. He knows that the word came out a little too quick, a little too surprised and he hurries to make his lips form a small smile. He knows it looks forced though, the movement of his lips suddenly feeling strangely alien.

“Thanks…” he then says, turning away from the counter and the cashier, ending the awkward conversation. Swallowing dryly he stops by the exit for a moment, just taking a deep breath. It kind of feels like he has been punched in the gut. With his heart sinking in his chest he grabs the door handle, turning it slowly. How could he have thought that he stood a chance? _‘Out of my league,’_ he thinks to himself bitterly and finally steps outside.

Grabbing his phone he is about to call a cab to drive him back to the motel when he remembers what he’ll be met with. Gnawing a bit harder on his lip he thinks about it for a few moments and realizes that's not what he wants to do. He doesn’t want to go back to the motel early and have Dean make fun of him for being stood up. It’s embarrassing, and he knows that his brother definitely won’t let an opportunity to crack a joke about it slip. No way. And Sam honestly isn’t sure if he’ll be able to handle that right now. Not in a sensible way, at least.

Letting out a small huff mixed with a sigh he maintains his composure, trying to put on a stone-faced look, even though his heart feels about ready to snap. His throat is strangely tight and frustrated he tries to swallow down the lump that has formed in there. Why is he so gullible? Obviously she was just playing with him, but he jumped right in. Standing there in front of the diner he watches as the shadows slowly grow longer and longer, creeping across the asphalt and turning darker. A few cars drive by out on the main road, and he follows them with his gaze, gone in thought. How had he not known that she was toying with him? He lets out a sigh. And then he finally starts to walk down the pavement, deciding to just walk the two hours to the motel.


	3. Chapter 3

With his legs feeling a little sore from the long walk and with a thin sheet of sweat covering his skin Sam finally comes to a stop in front of the motel door. The light is on, flickering behind the curtains and indicating that Dean is probably watching TV. Wiping his sleeve over his sweaty brow, Sam hesitates a little. Maybe he should wait a bit longer? Two hours isn’t long for a date, after all. But all he can think about right now is to just take a shower, to freshen up a little and try to rid himself of the nagging feeling of rejection in the process. He feels like a damn fool.

Taking a deep breath he knocks on the door, tapping the wooden surface in the rhythm he always uses to let his brother know that it’s him. And he twists the handle and walks inside, shrugging off his shoes and leaving them by the door sill. Dean is sitting on one of the beds in front of the TV – just as Sam expected – and he quickly turns his head to send him a wide smile, winking at him playfully. Also just like Sam expected.

“Sooooo… How’d it go?” Dean drawls, eyeing Sam up and down inquiringly and with a kind of smug expression on his face. He looks awfully cheerful. The younger Winchester returns the smile the best he can while cursing internally at his brother. Why did he have to ask that question? Why is he always so damn nosy? Feeling his throat constrict just a tiny bit as the lump inside it seems to grow a little bigger, Sam just shrugs, trying to look indifferent.

“Fine,” he manages to say, pulling his shirt off over his head. God, he needs a shower. And not just because of how sweaty he is right now. As he tosses the flannel shirt onto one of chairs, he tries to avoid his older brother looking at him – because he’s still wearing that annoying smile.

“Fine? It went ‘fine’? Hey, man, c’mon – don’t spare me the details!” Dean pushes, and his smile turns into a slightly crooked grin. Not able to stop himself from raking a hand through his hair in frustration Sam turns around and quickly discards his jeans, dropping them on his bed and heads straight for the bathroom.

“You don’t wanna know,” he mutters, walking past his brother who’s still just sitting on the edge of the bed and looking somewhat excited. Or is it amused? Sam can’t tell which and right now he doesn’t really care either. Dean lets out a small huff.

“Like hell I do! I wanna know just what my little brother has been up to for the last two hou—“

“I’m taking a shower,” Sam interrupts flatly and opens the door to the bathroom, slipping inside before Dean has the chance to continue the third degree. Cursing under his breath he shuts the door a little too hard, giving off a ‘bang’ loud enough to almost bounce off the walls, nearly startling himself – and in the process he misses the way Dean’s smile falters.

***************************************

As the loud sound of the bathroom door slamming pierces Dean’s ears he blinks a few times. Surprised and a little shocked he catches himself almost calling out his brother’s name, wanting to ask him what the hell is up with this kind of behavior. But he quickly stops himself. While he sits there on the foot end of the bed, bathed in the flickering light from the TV screen, he rubs his face a little as his gaze fixes on the closed bathroom door. _‘Damn it,’_ he thinks to himself. Because he very well knows why Sam is acting this way. Why he is suddenly slamming doors like some unruly teenager.

With his heart sinking a little in his chest Dean’s attention is caught by something light lying on the brown carpet and his glance darts down to fix on it. There, under the chair with Sam’s shirt on it, lies the crumbled piece of paper with Anna’s handwriting on it. _‘Damn it,’_ his mind repeats as he slowly gets up from the bed to pick it up. As he smoothes out the small note enough to make out the blue letters written on it, his heart sinks even more. 

“Meet me ‘round back at 6… Xoxo…” he quietly says under his breath, turning his head to look at the bathroom door again. Steam is beginning to pour out from the small gap between the door and its sill, and there’s no doubt that the showerhead in there is gushing out water hot enough to practically boil someone. Swallowing dryly Dean sticks the note in his pocket and then rubs his face again, this time letting his palms rub the skin just a little bit harder than necessary, the friction stinging. Why did he even do this? What was he thinking? By the way Sam was looking at that waitress he should have known… _‘Fuck,’_ his mind simply states. 

***************************************

The water pours down, gushing slightly too fast and much too hot as it runs down Sam's sides, and his mind fades out as he tries not to think about the previous hours. With a deep inhale of the surrounding hot steam Sam lets his head dip down under the showerhead and his chestnut locks quickly turn dark brown under the cascade of water as it rolls from his hair and onto his back in a flurry of warm drops. 

His throat constricts again when he asks himself that same question: '_How could I be so dumb?'_ And for half a second he struggles to let the oxygen out from his lungs, like it's caught inside of him and the lump forming in his throat won't let him breathe. Time seems to slip away just like the water swirling around the ceramic tiles before succumbing to the endless journey down the drain - and along with the water and time itself Sam's worries slowly slip away too as he zones out. It’s almost like the water is cleaning away his thoughts, scrubbing down his brain as if to mirror the clear pane of the Impala’s windscreen. At least for a little while.

Finally Sam reaches for the old, metallic taps, turning them to the side with a metallic squeak and the thousand gushing droplets quickly become forgotten drips. Just as forgotten as his newfound peace of mind. He steps out of the shower and finds a towel - at least Dean hadn't copied him and taken them - and rubs the cotton fabric through his hair to collect some of the excess water. He looks to the shelf and realizes that in all of his angst he has forgotten to grab some fresh clothes. With an annoyed huff and a quick wrap of the towel around his hips, he grabs the door handle even though he tells himself that he isn't quite ready for Dean to pry. Not just yet. But with a quiet sigh he decides to leave the bathroom anyway and walks out into the shared living space. 

The TV is switched off now, making the room dim and shadowy. The dark is almost eerie and the silence tells Sam that Dean isn't around. '_Strange' _he thinks to himself. But he doesn't take the time to dwell, instead he steps up to his bed and grabs his duffle bag, pulling out some clean clothes. Quirking an eyebrow Sam can't help but be thankful both that Dean isn't here and that his big brother decided not to keep the prank tradition alive by just taking Sam's duffle bag with him. Because he easily could have. It’s almost strange that he didn’t. Almost. 

Sam shrugs off the towel and yanks one leg through underwear and jeans. Then the other. As his head comes through the first black t-shirt he can hear the Impala's engine roaring through the car park outside, cones of light sweeping across the drawn curtains. The unmistakable and familiar sound is getting louder and louder before it then abruptly goes silent when Dean kills the engine.

Using the towel to ruffle his wet strands he watches through the window as Dean slowly opens the driver’s door, getting out of the car. On bowed legs he walks to the room and turns the handle. 

"Hey," he says in a gruff voice as he walks in and starts packing his bag, shoving his clothes inside it unceremoniously. 

"Hey," Sam meekly replies, discarding the towel and shrugging his grey flannel over his broad shoulders.

"What're you doing?"

"We're heading out…" Dean merely states, flicking up his glance to briefly look at him. 

"You found us a job?" Sam asks, tugging some damp strands of hair behind his ear when they threaten to fall into his eyes.

"Uhh… Yeah," Dean lies and turns on his heels, heading towards the front door while slinging the bag over his shoulder. He stops just before the open doorway, looking back at Sam who has turned around to shove his old shirt and jeans into his duffle with a little less care than usual. _‘Usually he’s so meticulous,’_ Dean thinks and bites his lip. But now his little brother is just roughly stuffing his things into the bag in no particular order, everything just getting tangled and messy. The feeling of guilt forces Dean’s heart to feel a little heavier, making it sink in his chest once again as he steps outside and walks up to the Impala. Gone in thought he lets a hand slide over the sleek lines of the car. Why did he take it this far? 

With a quiet huff he pops open the trunk - and there, sitting right on top of their armory, is the damn clown mask. The thing that started this whole stupid game to begin with. Dean almost growls at himself as his palms rub over his face. _'It was just meant to be a bit of fun,' _his mind says. Knitting his brows together in annoyance he roughly pushes the duffle into the trunk, covering the mask with it seconds before Sam walks out to toss his own bag in next to his. 

"What's the job?" Sam asks, looking down at his older brother with his hand held out as he waits for the motel keys. Clearing his throat Dean drops the keys for the room into his open hand.

"Yeah, I don't know the details yet. Bobby just said to head south, so…" he says and closes the boot, heading for the driver's seat. Shrugging Sam silently wanders off into the dark towards the reception to give back the keys, kicking at random pebbles lying on the asphalt. 

***************************************

Dean hits play on the cassette deck and “Welcome to the Jungle”by Guns 'n' Roses starts to scream through the speakers, almost making Sam wince by the sheer volume of it. Turning it down a notch Dean then pulls out of the motel car park and onto the highway, his foot getting a bit heavier on the accelerator that what is necessary.

They drive in silence. Heavy silence. The only noise is the music spilling out through the speakers. Dean subtly steals glances at his little brother now and again, but the kid just looks lost in thought, staring at his own reflection in the glass. He wants to ask what's on his mind or what he's thinking about – but questions like that are harder to ask when you know the answer.

Fifteen minutes down the road the silence is still thick enough to feel suffocating. “Poison” by Alice Cooper is blaring out through the speakers now, and Dean finds himself gripping the wheel way too hard. His knuckles are milky white, he realizes. Glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye he lets his lips part – but whatever he wants to say gets jumbled up in his mind and catches somewhere in his throat before it makes its way out. His little brother still hasn’t said a word, and he’s still just staring at his reflection vacantly. He hasn’t even shifted in his seat. Not once. Dean’s jaw muscles clench.

“Alright, that’s it,” he mutters, and suddenly he lets the car swerve away from the highway, turning down a narrow and rather bumpy gravel road. As he does Sam finally seems to wake up a little, and he sends him a confused look.

“Umm… Where’re we going?” he asks, looking from Dean to the dirt road and back again.

“Aren’t we supposed to go south?” he adds, eyeing Dean up and down inquiringly.

“Yeah, but I need a pit stop,” Dean says as he brings the Impala to a sudden hold next to some dry shrubbery, suspension and brakes lightly shrieking and dust swirling around in the air when the tires finally stop spinning. It’s dark out here away from the street lights – in fact it’s pitch black – but Dean just swings the door open and steps out onto the uneven gravel.

“Okay…” Sam replies from inside the car, leaning his head back on the head rest. But before he has a chance to even close his eyes and relax a little, his door is opened and Dean sticks his head inside.

“You need one too,” he just says, straightening back up. Perplexed Sam just stares up at him, unable to see much more than a black silhouette on a dark blue background.

“Wha-no, I don’t. Just take a leak already and let’s go,” he says, about to lean his head back once more.

“Sam, get out of the car. Alright?” Dean says, and this time there’s a serious tone in his voice that Sam can’t miss. Frowning he looks up at the silhouette and finds himself shortly wondering if he should feel uneasy. His brother is acting pretty weird. _‘Oh, it’s probably another prank,’_ Sam’s mind quickly informs him. But still he swings his long legs out onto the road, getting up from his seat.

“What’s going on?” he asks, trying to make out the expression on Dean’s face in the dark. It’s impossible though, everything is just blacks and different shades of blue. The gravel crunches a bit under Dean’s shoes as he starts to move towards the trunk, not saying a word. Sam’s frown grows a bit bigger.

“Dean?” he just asks, following him to the back end of the car. But his brother doesn’t answer. Instead he pops open the trunk and rummages about for something. And suddenly a small orange light flares up in the darkness when he lights a Zippo, illuminating and nearly blinding them both for a moment.

“Jeez, thanks for the warning…!” Sam bursts out, squinting and turning away slightly to get his eyes to adjust. Dean just huffs and keeps rummaging about in the trunk.

“Wanna tell me what this is about?” Sam then says, starting to get impatient and a little nervous about the way his brother is acting all of a sudden. As Dean pulls out a small container of gasoline along with some rags he looks up at Sam, small wrinkles spreading on his forehead. He looks almost worried.

“When was the last time we had a bonfire?” Dean then asks. Instantly Sam’s brows raise themselves up into two inquisitive arcs.

“Umm, I don’t remem—“

“I think we need to have one,” Dean says, interrupting his brother. With his mouth opening only to close again while he fumbles for words, Sam just stares at him.

“Why?” he then manages to say.

“Please, Sam, just go with me on this one,” Dean says as he pulls the items out of the trunk, handing them to his brother. Almost losing his balance as they’re shoved into his arms, Sam just gapes like a fish out of water.

“Eh… Okay…?” he says hesitantly and follows Dean when he walks out to the side of the road and onto a patch of short grass. Dean then turns around and takes the gasoline from him, giving him the lit Zippo with his other hand. After all, having a lighter and gasoline too close to each other is usually a pretty bad combination, so he needs to be just a little bit careful. As Sam holds up the Zippo, Dean takes the rags from him – only to drop them on the ground in a pile. After rearranging them into a stacked heap he then starts to pour gasoline over them with generous splashes. Sam knits his brows even closer together.

“Is this some kind of ritual I don’t know about?” he asks, wondering if his brother has gone completely nuts.

“Yeah, but I’ll let you in on it,” Dean says and straightens back up, tossing some twigs onto the heap of soaked rags. He then sighs and turns around to face Sam who is still holding the lit Zippo in his hand.

“Look…” Dean just says, but seems to trail off. In the flickering light of the flame he looks kind of strange, Sam thinks to himself. Almost like he’s sad. Raking a hand through his short hair, Dean looks hesitant for a moment before reaching for the Zippo. Sam hands it over, almost dropping it when his older brother fumbles a bit, surprised at how hot the metal has become already.

“Son of a…” he mumbles, almost hisses, when he finally manages to grab the lighter, his fingers instantly protesting as the skin heats up and starts to sting. Quickly he grabs a nearby twig, snapping it in two and putting the flame to some of its dead leaves. Within an instant the leaves catch on fire, and he hurries to flick the Zippo closed, sticking it in his pocket. With a small sigh he then tosses the twig onto the pile of rags and it instantly ignites, a small ball of fire exploding into the air as the gasoline catches on fire with a ‘whoosh’.

As their surroundings are getting bathed in a sharp, orange glow it’s suddenly a lot easier to see. Squinting they look at each other as they stand there next to the gravel road, Sam looking a little lost and Dean looking close to sad. With a small frown Sam shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“So… What now?” he asks, tugging a loose and still damp strand of hair behind his ear.

“Now… Now we make a truce,” Dean says, looking up at Sam. He looks nearly remorseful, and for a moment Sam just stares at him in bafflement.

“A truce?” he says dumbly, not expecting Dean to say _that_ of all things. Hell, he thought they were about to do a new, occult ritual of some sort - so what is this?

“It’s time to stop with the pranks, Sam... They’ve gone too far,” Dean just says. Surprised Sam just skeptically eyes him up and down – but the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. It seems like his brother really means what he’s saying. Sam swallows.

“Yeah…” he then says lowly, casting his glance down to fix it on some small, worm-eaten pieces of wood by his feet. Nudging at them with the tip of his shoe he licks his bottom lip.

“So that’s what this is about?” he asks, but it isn’t really a question. As he flicks his gaze back up to look at his brother he lets out a small huff, but this time it’s accompanied by the tiniest of smiles.

“I can get on board with that…” he says, tilting his head a little in speculation.

“But why the bonfire?” he asks, pointing to the flames still eagerly lapping at the rags on the ground. And finally Dean smiles a little as well.

“Told you, we’re doing a ritual,” he says and suddenly heads back towards the car. Sam follows him with his glance as he moves towards the trunk, popping it open. He moves some stuff around in there and then pulls out something Sam can’t really make out. The shape of it looks strangely familiar though.

“Besides, fire is cool, Sam. Don’t know if you got the memo,” Dean jokes as he walks back towards him. When he gets closer and the light from the fire hits him better Sam’s breath wants to hitch in his throat when he can finally make out the thing in his hand. It’s the damn clown mask.

“What are you doing with that??” Sam instantly blurts out, already feeling a bit uneasy by the way the light flickers across the creepy-looking plastic face.

“I’m giving it to you,” Dean says and lifts the mask a little, urging Sam to take it. Tensing up Sam just shakes his head.

“What? I don’t want it…!” he says, his gaze darting from Dean to the mask and back again.

“I know. That’s why I want you to burn it,” Dean dead-pans. Sam just looks at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“It’ll be our ritual,” Dean says, offering Sam an encouraging smile. Is he serious? Sam can’t really tell, and the way that damn mask seems to be glaring at him isn’t helping him to think clearly. Hesitantly he reaches out his hand, nearly stopping halfway when his mind screams at him to not touch that horrific thing. _‘It’s just a stupid mask,’_ he thinks to himself, annoyed that he can’t seem to properly control his phobia. With jaw muscles clenching he finally lets his hand close the distance and carefully grabs a hold of the mask, taking it from his brother.

“Seriously?” Sam asks meekly, resisting the urge to just throw the mask into the bushes and far, far away. Even though he doesn’t want to admit it he really doesn’t like touching it. _‘Childish,’_ his mind pipes up.

“Yeah, seriously,” Dean says, and Sam’s glance flicks up to look at him. _‘He really means it,’_ Sam thinks to himself, and he can feel the beginning of a smile trying to form on his lips.

“Truce?” he then says, nervously keeping the mask half an arm’s length away. Dean sends him a genuine smile, the small crow’s feet by the corners of his eyes spreading slowly but surely. 

“Truce!” he says and digs his hand into one of his jeans’ pockets. Sam lets out a small huff of relief, his shoulders lowering about an inch as most of the tension seems to leave his body in an instant.

“No more pranks…” Dean says, pulling out what looks like a piece of paper from his pocket. Sam’s eyes widen a little when he recognizes it. It’s Anna’s note. _‘Wait, he did that?’_ his mind instantly bursts out, and his heart sinks - but judging by the look on Dean’s face he is just as affected as Sam is, if not more. Usually he’s pretty much always stone-faced when things take a wrong turn and needs solving, but now… Now he looks different. In fact he looks regretful, jaw all set and brows furrowed. Chewing on his bottom lip Sam feels a wave of sympathy wash through him. _‘He didn’t mean any harm,’_ his mind says, studying Dean’s facial expression as they lock eyes. Swallowing dryly, Sam then nods and holds out the clown mask, stepping a little closer to the fire.

“Agreed,” he says, sending his older brother a hopeful smile.

“No more stupid pranks!” he declares – and then he drops the mask into the fire. Dean instantly follows his lead, letting Anna’s note fall into the flames. As the plastic begins to sizzle and melt, the note evaporates in a small burst of smoke, and for the first time in a long time Sam feels relaxed. Like the annoying lump is his throat is shrinking to be replaced with… Well, nothing. Nothing but air. It’s like he can breathe again.

“’M sorry, man…” Dean says under his breath, lightly clapping Sam’s shoulder. With a smile finally growing to its full size on his lips Sam turns to look at him:

“I’m sorry too, Dean,” he says and grabs his brother’s wrist, pulling him into a quick hug. Surprised the older Winchester barely has the time to blink before Sam’s arms are wrapped around him – and he is released just as quickly.

For a moment they just stand there and look at the flames as they lick the remains of the plastic clown mask, the orange glow and the faint crackling of the fire feeling close to soothing. Liberating, actually. And the resolved tension is putting a wide smile on both of their faces. They should have done this long ago, that’s for sure.

As the fire begins to finally die down a little, the clown mask is nothing but a wrinkled and molten plastic puddle, sizzling and hissing as the remaining flames devour the last bits of it. But the wind suddenly decides to change direction, sweeping the smoke right at the two of them in a thick, black blanket. Coughing they turn around when their eyes instantly begin to water and their lungs start to sting from the probably toxic smoke.

“God…!” Sam bursts out, covering his mouth with his sleeve as they both begin to move towards the car. The smoke is so dense and heavy that every inhale feels like it’s scratching every inch of soft tissue in their windpipes and lungs. 

“Let’s get outta here…!” Dean coughs, nearly blinded by the smoke as they stagger onto the uneven gravel road. With the light from the fire dying down it isn’t easy to see where they are putting down their feet, and the many holes in the dirt road aren’t exactly making the job easier.

“If we can find the car…” he adds, letting out a hoarse laugh which ends in another cough.

“Oh, the smell...!” Sam hacks, fumbling for the car in the dark.

“Yeah, smells like dead clown out here!” Dean laughs, managing to finally find and open the Impala’s door in the driver’s side. A choked huff escapes Sam as he fumbles to the other side of the car, nearly tripping.

“Let’s go before I twist an ankle in one of these damn potholes…” he grins as he opens the door and plops down on the seat. In a hurry he smacks the door closed - in sync with Dean – and takes a deep breath of the much cleaner air inside the car. Sending his older brother a smile he watches as he turns the key in the ignition, the Impala’s engine roaring to life and its lights coming on to illuminate the heavy black smoke in front of them. It seems to be pretty much everywhere. It looks kind of mesmerizing as it swirls and rolls in the cones of white light. Returning his smile Dean glances at Sam.

“Ready to hit the road, Sammy?” he asks, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Sam automatically want to hug him again. It looks like compassion. The true kind. A sort of softheartedness that he rarely gets to see. Letting out a content sigh he convinces himself to just stay in his seat and skip the hug this time, sending his brother a brilliant smile instead.

“Yeah… Yeah, ‘m ready,” he says, nodding. And with that Dean nods back at him, the familiar crow’s feet spreading around the corners of his eyes a little more as he lets his fingers nudge the play button on the cassette deck. The moment they start driving Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” begins to pour out through the speakers, filling the car with smooth guitar riffs and thoughtful vocals. It’s actually quite a fitting soundtrack. As dust is kicked up behind them, extinguishing the last remnants of the fire, they both just sit there in silence with smiles on their faces. But this time the silence doesn’t at all feel suffocating – and it doesn’t last long either. 

**THE END**


End file.
